


i couldn't feel (so i tried to touch)

by evewithanapple



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 13:39:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11186265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: Touching Jesus is never on his terms, but it doesn’t seem to bother him.





	i couldn't feel (so i tried to touch)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fingalsanteater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingalsanteater/gifts).



Jesus has always been free with his affections. It startles some people, that the son of God would so openly allow himself to be touched and petted and tugged at by whatever rabble runs at his heels. No matter who it is that flings themselves at his feet- a beggar, a prostitute, a leper, a tax collector – he reaches down and raises them up with a smile and an assurance: _mercy, not sacrifice_. And when they sob and cling to his robes, he smiles all the more and lets them cling until they are ready to let go. Touching Jesus is never on his terms, but it doesn’t seem to bother him.

It’s the same with the disciples: they hug him, stroke his hair, even wash his feet, and he lets them. It’s the same with Judas- or _would be_ the same with Judas, if he ever allowed himself the liberty. Jesus repulses Judas as much as he draws him in; the brilliance of it all hurts his eyes, and he’s sure his hands would burn if he were ever to reach out and touch. When he watches others lay their hands on Jesus, it provokes a sick sort of envy, a queasy inner revolt against the very concept of it- because Jesus _should not_ be touched he thinks, he shouldn’t be so- so open, so exposed, so _vulnerable_. That’s what really gnaws at him: that Jesus seems to trust everyone so easily, while Judas trusts no one at all. Not even Jesus himself, if he’s being truly honest. (He rarely is.)

“Any one of them could kill you,” he says once, bitterly, several cups of wine sitting uneasily in his stomach. “Put a knife to your throat or your back, or- or hand you over to the Romans. I hope you know that.”

And Jesus, Jesus only looks at him with a gaze that’s half-amused, half-sorrowful. “I know,” he says simply, and Judas turns and walks away with his thoughts.

The others don’t seem to notice- they’re all too wrapped up in their own petty concerns and melodramas, never really casting their thoughts to wonder what happens between Jesus and anyone who isn’t them. Most of them don’t care much for Judas anyway; he’s sneered at them one too many times. For the most part, he’s left alone. He knows that some of the other disciples mutter to themselves, asking why Jesus even permits Judas to follow him, given that he barely seems to believe in their mission. (Whatever _that_ is.) But as far as he knows, no one’s ever voiced that particular thought to Jesus. If they know Judas can be counted on for sarcasm and bitter wit, they also know that Jesus won’t turn anyone away no matter how caustic they are. No matter how little they believe.

Another piece of stupidity. Another risk. It’s almost as if Jesus _wants_ to be in harm’s way, he thinks- why conduct himself so carelessly otherwise? Why open himself to attack? Why turn Judas away with a gentle smile (damn him, how he hates that smile; he sees condescension in it, though he knows it’s not intended) whenever he points out that they’re on a collision course with Rome, and anyone can see what will happen when they finally crash. The might of an empire against a self-anointed messiah and his handful of disciples? They’d be obliterated.

 _Stop it_ , he wants to say; stop letting them in so close, stop dancing on the edge of destruction, stop courting disaster in some blind, misguided show of faith. Stop relying on the rest of them; they’ll abandon him as soon as they’re given the chance, he _knows_ it. He knows he’s arrogant, knows he’s bitter, but he also knows that he’ll be here until the end. It’s what he wants to say more than anything, the one thing he _can’t_ say: _turn them away. Trust me instead._

Sometimes at night, after a day spent wrestling with demons without and within, he lays hands on himself and thinks of Jesus. He hates himself for it, knows he’s betraying his own convictions, but he can’t help it. His skin is goose-flecked in the chill night air, and he thinks of how it would feel to have another person’s hands on him- Jesus’s hands, which must be so warm, hot with passion, smoothing away the cold and the loneliness and the doubt until there was nothing but the blazing fire of belief. That’s what he wants more than anything: the reassurance of it, the safety of connection, even as he turns away anyone who might join hands with him. He finds his only solace in the dark of night, in the touch of his own hands, because he can’t trust any others. He learned early and often that the only person he could rely on was himself, and he carries that lesson to this day. Even Jesus, who offers bright promises of connection- he can’t even really believe in him, no matter how much he wants to.

These thoughts come with increasing regularity in the last days; realizing that betrayal is the only option left to him makes his loneliness all the more stark. He sometimes thinks he sees Jesus looking at him like he knows, and it makes him sick to think of it, even though it’s no less than he deserves. He touches himself more often, though he's abandoned his fantasies of Jesus: even he isn't so twisted as to let himself picture such a thing when he's forsaken any chance of it. He weeps sometimes, thinking _what could have been, what should have been_ , even though he can't picture a life where things were different. More than ever, he looks at the others laying their hands on Jesus and feels twin spikes of hatred- one for them, rooted deep in envy, and one for himself and the things he's done. He thinks _you've ruined everything_ and _he ruined everything_ , and he can't decide which thought is worse.

"The one I kiss is Jesus Christ," he says to the centurions. He's not sure what compells him to say it, except one last weakness: if it is to end, let it end with the briefest glimpse of what could have been. His legs tremble underneath him as he approaches, and Jesus does not move. ( _Why doesn't he move?_ ) He means for it to be brief- just a brush of his lips against Jesus's cheek, and it will all be over. He'll have played out his role in their drama, and he can retreat to do- whatever it is he'll do next. Not much, he thinks. Nothing worthwhile. 

But Jesus stops him. He goes to pull away, and Jesus grasps both his forearms, holding him in place. Even if he wasn't gripping him so tightly, Judas wouldn't be able to move- the shock of finally touching him after all this time is rooting him to the spot. _Jesus_ is laying hands on _him_ , like he's done with so many others, but something about it different- something is bigger than it's been before, or maybe it's just because this will be the last and only time. Jesus leans forward, brushing their foreheads together, and Judas's breath freezes in his throat. His eyes are closed- he can't look at Jesus, or he thinks he'll burn on the spot- but Jesus's hands are still on his arms, their faces together, and he was right about the heat. He's burning up, a pillar of fire that will collapse into ash the moment Jesus takes his hands away. But Jesus isn't taking his hands away- God, that's the worst part- he's still holding on, moving his hands up to cradle Judas's head against his chest, like he _doesn't want to leave_. Like this was something he wanted before, always wanted- something he could have chosen, if only Judas hadn't been so stubborn. So blind. So _stupid_. He's realized his mistake too late, and all he can do is fist his hands in Jesus's shirt and weep, no longer afraid of looking weak, because what more can they do to him? What can anyone do to him that he hasn't done to himself?

Then there are other hands on him- rough, Roman hands- and in an instant, Jesus is gone. He hears, dimly, the disciples crying out as they throw themselves into battle, Jesus's voice rising above the crowd telling them to lay down their weapons. The centurions who'd taken hold of him drop him as soon as they realize he's no real threat, leaving him in a heap against a stone pillar as they fight off the others. Judas curls himself into a ball, arms tucked against his stomach, knees drawn up, head on the stony ground. The fight rages all around him, but he barely hears it any longer. All he can hear is the overwhelming beat of his own heart, the dreadful knowledge that came the briefest moment too late: that it could have been different, all of it, if he'd only _seen_. If he'd only known. If he'd only touched.

If only.


End file.
